


a history of blue-balling (as observed by a vintage bentley)

by andthemumblingintensifies



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Car Sex, Confessions, Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Implied Sexual Content, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Sentient Bentley (Good Omens), The Bentley Ships It (Good Omens), Top Crowley (Good Omens), crowley is a walking panic attack, fIfTy yEaRs aZiRaPhAlE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 09:44:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21269012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthemumblingintensifies/pseuds/andthemumblingintensifies
Summary: The Bentley has had enough, Crowley has a meltdown, and the two finally realize that they had completely different interpretations of that fateful, "You go too fast for me, Crowley."





	a history of blue-balling (as observed by a vintage bentley)

**Author's Note:**

> This was born out of an inside joke between my sister and myself that I took a little too far. Just a cute, stupid, little fanfic.

The Bentley was there, of course she was, waiting patiently for Crowley and Aziraphale, flicking through her music selections for the drive back. There was, of course, the matter of atmosphere. This mess was started in the Bentley, and she’d be damned if it didn’t end there too.

The duo strolled casually out of the Ritz, and her engine flared to life, lights turning on by themselves. Lunch, as it was wont to do, had bled into dinner, and night had long since fallen outside. Crowley ushered Aziraphale in before himself and then, in the car, turned down Arctic Monkeys’ “Somebody to Love”. 

For years she’d suffered the silent tension between these two, and she was sure her engine would overheat if nothing was done about it. She hadn’t died and been resurrected only to keep watching Crowley and Aziraphale dance the line of “friend” and “something more, everything more.” Dancing on the head of a pin. 

“That’s what m’_ saying, _” Crowley insisted, in the slurred voice that only results from several hours of gratuitous drinking. 

“No, no, you’re saying that if the- if the- the, uh-”

The Bentley pulled out of the parking lot of her own accord, carrying the angel and the demon off to somewhere of her own choosing. Crowley, too drunk to truly process what was happening, reflexively let one hand wrap around the wheel, the other slapping it as he exclaimed, “Those blessed birds, angel! Especially those bloody ducks. Bastards really, ducks.” 

“They can’t- they’re not _ spying _ on us Crowley, they’re, they’re, they’re ducks!” He threw his hands emphatically in the air. Aziraphale’s face was flushed, his words disconnected from his brain, his everything else.

“You can’t _ trust _ them angel! M’sure they’re one of yours I- you know they say they work for the boug- the bongio-” He stammered over the word, engrossed in his attempt to recollect.

“Crowley, watch the road!” Aziraphale called out as the Bentley, distracted, ran over a curb. She would have ended up fully on the pavement had she not swerved back into place. 

Crowley’s arm shot out protectively, pressing Aziraphale back against the seat. As the Bentley straightened herself out (these supernatural entities were good for jack _ shit _), their breathing calmed down, gradually. Silence fell over the two of them, the atmosphere thick. Crowley’s arm fell, rested in Aziraphale’s lap, settled on his thigh. 

_ Somebody, the Bentley could _ scream _ right now. _

Aziraphale took a shaky breath, one he didn’t even need. “My dear, perhaps we should er…”

“Sober up?” Crowley grunted, “Yeah, think so.” 

They winced, the alcohol leaving their bloodstreams. 

Crowley’s hand was still on his thigh. Aziraphale, driven by some innate _ need _, laced their fingers together. 

For both their sakes, the Bentley took over. 

“Didn’t we agree to, ah-” Crowley looked at Aziraphale, looked back at the road. It didn’t matter, he wasn’t really controlling the car anymore. “I mean, you said-”

“I’m perfectly sober, my dear,” Aziraphale reassured him, matter-of-factly. He turned his hand over, palm to palm. 

After having one owner for so long, you learn a thing or two about a demon. The particular way Crowley was gripping the wheel right now was the way he always gripped it when Aziraphale was in the car. Tight knuckled, thumbing the leather, almost like he was begging her to hold him back, don’t let him reach out, don’t let him kiss him, don’t let him say it.

They Bentley had more sexual tension embedded in the leather of her seats than she cared to think about. Probably enough to air ten more seasons of Supernatural. She was a vintage car on a mission, and she’d be damned if this didn’t work out. 

“That’s- that wasn’t quite what I was getting at, angel.” 

“Hmm,” Aziraphale hummed. He didn’t press on. “Where are we off to?” 

The Bentley took her cue and switched the track to Beethoven’s “Good Old-Fashioned Loverboy”. Neither seemed to cotton on to her suggestion. 

“Ngk. Not sure.”

_ Ba valentino just for you... _

_ “Oooh, love...”_

Crowley’s head snapped to the side. “You know the song?” 

“Well of course I do! I don’t get all of your music, but I do enjoy this song. Quite charming lyrics, you know.” He hesitated a beat before continuing to hum. “_ That’s because I’m a good old-fashioned loverboy.” _

“You listen to my music.”

He wiggled contentedly. “I do rather like Freddie Mercury. I met the fellow once, only briefly. He mentioned that I seemed familiar...I suppose you must have known him too?” 

Crowley tensed, “He told you that?”

“No, he never actually said anything about that. I just assumed- well, you’ve rather confirmed it. _ I’d like for you and I to go romancing-” _

“Would you cut that out?” Crowley snapped, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. The music shut off, the Bentley startled into submission. 

“My dear, why so uptight? It’s just a song.” 

It wasn’t _ just _ a song. The Bentley knew this, Crowley knew this, and Aziraphale could probably tell by now too. The air was thick with the knowledge of, well, _ something _ . Something yet unspoken, something that Crowley couldn’t avoid when that song played. The lyrics were too familiar to him, describing an evening that had never happened, one that he had only dreamed of. One that could have happened time and time and time again, if not for angelic hesitation. If not for a tartan thermos, red lights in the Bentley, _ You go too fast for me, Crowley. _

Honestly, Crowley should have known better than to whine about his relationship struggles to a musician. 

Aziraphale fiddled with the radio, turning it on and trying to find a station that played anything other than _ “dining at the Ritz, we’ll meet at nine.”_

“What, what are you- what are you doing?” Crowley had only now realized that his hand was still held captive in the grip of his angel as he moved to bat the wandering fingers away. He couldn’t very well break the connection. The Bentley, had she had any lungs, would have held her breath tightly. Alas, cars did not have organs. All she could do was silently beg Crowley that he would _ not _ let go. 

He didn’t. How could he sever a point of connection between himself and Aziraphale? When he had been waiting for it for so long… 

So he instead took his other hand, the one on the wheel, and waved Aziraphale away from the radio dismissively. 

“Crowley! For heaven’s sake, keep your hands on the wheel-” 

“Well then you stop touching the radio! I just got her back, you know, I can’t very well let her go up in flames again…” 

“She will if you don’t start driving properly! I really ought to learn how to drive, you endanger our corporations every time you sit behind the wheel.” 

Crowley was holding the wheel again, but it didn’t do much. He breezed through an intersection, pushing eighty. “Oh, come on, Angel. I haven’t discorporated us in the last, what, eighty years? You’re overreacting!” 

“I am _ not _ overreacting! God- _ Crowley! _” 

The Bentley swerved violently, narrowly avoiding a family walking through the street, wheels driving up and onto the pavement. She hated to be so reckless but, when Crowley was like this, she really had no choice. “Please, angel, that was _ hardly _ my fault.” 

He regained some control, some composure. His hand had slipped out of Aziraphale’s (bless it), but he dropped the speed to a sluggish 75 miles per hour which, considering this was _ Crowley _ driving, was a miracle.“I get us from point A to point B, don’t I?” _ No, that’s me _, the Bentley wanted to shout, but it wasn’t her place. “That’s all that matters, right? What’s so bad about my driving?”

Aziraphale scoffed. “Well, besides the fact that you just narrowly avoided running over an entire family,” he adjusted his waistcoat, pulled down at the bottom (it was fine, never really needed adjusting), “Well, I’ve said it before. No matter how well _ you _ can handle it, you go too fast for me, Crowley.” 

From the way he froze and clenched his hands, knuckles turning angel-wing white on her steering wheel, the Bentley could tell she’d be better off just delivering the two where they needed to be. Crowley, apparently, had much the same idea. 

The car melted in the distance, completely unnoticed, and reappeared outside the flat at Mayfair. Neither angel nor demon really registered the change, too caught up in the sudden stock-still silence. 

_ You go too fast for me, Crowley. _

_ You go too fast for me… _

_ You go too fast… _

_ Too fast, too fast, too fast. _

Freddie Mercury’s voice faded out and back in again on the radio. _ I can dim the lights… _

Crowley coughed, shallow, high in his throat. “So, er, I still go too fast for you, huh?” 

The Bentley felt herself deflating. She had tried so hard, too. 

“You’ve been driving the same way since the automobile was invented, my dear boy. Are you alright?” 

Crowley and Aziraphale weren’t _stupid, _not really. But they could be insufferably dense, especially when it came to each other. When it came down to this unnamed _this_ between them. Words were wont to be misinterpreted. 

“You go too fast for me,” had been roughly translated into, “I’m not ready yet, Crowley. Please, just give me time. Let this happen at my pace. I’m not ready yet to be with you.” 

“I, uh, tickety-boo. As you say. Sorry, you were talking about my _ driving? _” 

Aziraphale nodded, slowly. “Are you sure you’re alright?” 

“And, and back in- with, with the Holy Water. Then too?” 

“Well, yes.” 

Crowley nearly passed out. “So you’re telling me that fifty years ago, when you said the whole, the, uh-” 

“You go too fast for me?” Aziraphale repeated, “Yes, that was about you-”

“That was about my _ driving _?” 

“Well, what else?” 

Crowley slapped the wheel with the heel of his hand and, okay, fine, he was frustrated, but did he _ have _to keep hitting her like that? 

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe our entire relationship?! You know how I- you know that I love you, Aziraphale," he said it with a sort of quiet desperation, almost a beg, a plead, a sob, a break, a crack. "I love you, Aziraphale, and I’ve spent _ fifty years _ trying not to go too fast for you and the whole time you meant my fucking _ driving?” _

Aziraphale paused, stunned by the pure anger in Crowley’s voice. And more than that, Crowley_ loved _him. There was that too; he loved him, he had admitted it just like that, and oh, heaven, hell, and Earth. Crowley had told Aziraphale he loved him. 

“Look, I know that I took things rather slowly, but that statement was never meant to be-” 

“Fifty. Years.” Crowley spoke slowly, as though he still couldn’t quite process it. At least he wasn’t shouting. Or hitting the Bentley anymore. She’d put up with enough abuse tonight alone, all in the name of getting these two- _ idiots, _she thought- together. Crowley had better appreciate this. 

“Give or take, yes.” A breath, a moment, an eternity. “It was probably for the best,” Aziraphale appealed, “That we laid low until now. If Heaven had seen evidence of us together in a more intimate manner, why, they would have destroyed us!” 

“That’s bollocks, angel, you know that is,” Crowley argued. “They probably wouldn’t have seen the difference. Besides, fifty years! Do you know what we could have done in that time? _ Fifty years? _”

Aziraphale sighed. “I know, I know. But now we have all the time in the world, don’t we? With neither my people nor yours breathing down our necks.” He took Crowley’s hand. He was shaken off. The Bentley hummed in disapproval of Crowley’s actions.

“No, no, don’t even _ begin _ to say that. They never check up anyways. We could have been happy, angel! 

“But, I am. I am happy. With you, as we are right now," Aziraphale responded, voice gentle as a soft rain. As quiet as “you go too fast for me.” As hopeful as “go off together.” As adoring as “to the world”. "No matter how insufferably frustrating you are," he continued. 

Crowley broke, his tension melting away. The radio, without being touched, faded to silence. _Just take me back to yours..._

“Aziraphale…” 

“I know, my love.” 

“Fifty years…” He said it like he couldn’t quite believe it himself. Like he was still trying to fit the idea in his head, keep it in, in, in, but it only trickled out his mouth. “Fif--woah.” 

He was yanked by the tie, and he and Aziraphale were very, very close. 

Aziraphale spoke softly, hesitantly. “You’re shaking, dearest.

“Ngk. Well. So are you.” 

“I am?” He paused reflectively, “Yes, I believe so.”

“We can wait angel, I can wait. We don’t need to go so-"

Aziraphale kissed him. 

It wasn’t guarded, wasn’t hesitant. Just pure and complete, fifty-years of devotion. Of love. And Crowley kissed back, of course he did. He leaned back against the familiar-yet-new leather seats, let Aziraphale lead him. Kissed him and kissed him and kissed him, and it was frantic, it was hurried, it was fifty years finally catching up to them. 

“You really do need to shut up, darling,” Aziraphale muttered, unwilling to move so much as an inch away from Crowley. Not now, not ever again. Crowley’s hands clenched around the fabric of Aziraphale’s jacket, holding him, holding him, holding him." 

To a car, fifty years is a lifetime and a lifetime and a lifetime and another. She had seen Crowley trapped in here, fifty years ago, by a tartan thermos and by seven simple words. And now she saw the liberation, the release of the shackles. The collision of two into one. (They’d always been one anyway, never really been apart.)

And to think she had been the catalyst of all this…

_ A job nicely done _, she congratulated herself. 

Six thousand years ago, in a garden, on a wall, an angel had opened his heart to a demon, and the demon sauntered inwards. Fifty years ago, in a Bentley, on a winter evening, the demon had caught his fall. Had built up the wall. Had vowed to go slow enough. 

And now, in a Bentley, as the summer came to an end, the demon let himself fall. The angel, too. They fell onto long-loved leather, wrapped in long-awaited arms. This curse, this fear, this, _ “I hope I’m not going too fast,” _had begun and ended in the Bentley, in the only place that it could. 

Their lips separated for only a moment, a breath, to confirm that this was real. 

“_Fifty years, _ Aziraphale,” Crowley repeated. They kissed again. How could they not? 

Aziraphale couldn’t help but chuckle, ever so softly, at the situation. A little misunderstanding, gone too far. So like them. Feather-light hands carded through hair as bright as flames. As red as the light from a buzzing neon sign, glowing in the seedy part of town. “I love you.” 

“I love you too, angel, it’s just,” he swallowed as Aziraphale pressed his mouth to his jaw, soft and sweet. There are no celestial harmonies in his kiss, just the song of a young English gentleman, inspired by the story of an angel and a demon. “It’s just, just...fifty-” 

“Fifty years,” they said together. 

And, well, even if it wasn’t exactly what the Bentley had expected to be doing with her Sunday evening, she was glad to help. She just hoped that revving her engine loudly effectively communicated, “You lovebirds are adorable, now _ please _ get a room.” 

Oh, well. There were worse situations to be in. 

“Hush now, my love,” Aziraphale continued, plucking Crowley’s sunglasses off his face , “Let’s see if we can’t make up for lost time.” 

“Fifty years is a lot to make up for in one night, angel. Think you can go fast enough?” 

“You’d love to see me try.” 

“I _ love _ you.” A hand in the hair. A quick press of lips. “Now get on with it, will you? You're wasting precious time, angel.” 

Aziraphale sighed. “I suppose you’re right. I’ve made you wait quite long enough.” 

The Bentley was no voyeur. But she had waited too long for this to finally happen. 

Besides, cars can’t look away.   


**Author's Note:**

> I'm terrified to post this, but I've gotten more than enough feedback and gone through more than enough drafts so...I think it's finally time to break into the world of AO3 and Good Omens fanfiction. Take her and do with her what you will.


End file.
